


Frozen Inside

by FancifulThing



Category: Naruto
Genre: Anbu Hatake Kakashi, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon Compliant, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hatake Kakashi-centric, Ice release, Kakashi Gaiden, Kekkei Genkai | Bloodline Limit, Kid Hatake Kakashi, Minor Original Character(s), Original Character(s), Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, POV Hatake Kakashi, Pre-Canon, Protective Older Brothers, Slow Burn, Yuki Clan, angsty Kakashi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-06 16:43:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18854995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancifulThing/pseuds/FancifulThing
Summary: He forces himself to meet her taciturn gaze, and suddenly he's seventeen again, and she's laughing so hard that there's tears in her eyes, and he's swearing to himself that he won't ruin this. Ruin her. How he wishes he could go back. Kakashi x OC





	1. Prologue

"Try it again, Sora." Ren's voice was firm. "The key is control, see?" The paper-thin layer of ice that spread from his fingertips was completely transparent. _Precise._

Sora frowned.

She formed the now-familiar hand-seals with vigilant care, and brought her hand down to the pond. The half-frozen pond exploded at her touch, sending slivers of ice flying at her face. Ren's arm came up to shield her just in time, and she watched with frustration as the ice rained down into the snow, right next to the ice shards produced from her first attempt, her second, her fortieth…

Ren closed his eyes and let out a sigh. It was a soft, long-suffering sound. "Well, you don't lack in chakra volume, that's for sure. Your only problem is control."

"That and the fact that my Ice Release hasn't awakened," Sora muttered. "Maybe it never wi—"

Sora winced as Ren flicked a finger square against her temple. He bent down in front of her, arms crossed in exaggeration. "No sister of mine is allowed to make such a pitiful face."

"You don't get it, Ren. Everything comes easily to you. You're the genius. The Prodigy. The saviour of the clan." She pouted, bristling. "Isn't that what they call you?"

 _"_ _Tsk_. They're exaggerating." He folded his hands behind his head, then tipped leisurely backward unto the ground. He landed in a poof of snow, and patted the space beside him. "You make it sound like I've never had to try at anything. I'd like to think I'm not that much of a lazy bum."

"You do work hard." Sighing, Sora leaned back into the snow beside him. She shivered as she felt snow make contact with her bare neck. "But at this rate, Hikaru's gonna learn ninjutsu before I do, and he can barely crawl!"

He snorted playfully. " Even if your Ice Release never manifests, you can still be super strong, you know. To be honest, you kinda scare me with that sword. You've really taken after Mum."

In a blink, Ren was up and Sora's feet went flying from under her. Around and around he swung her, until a traitorous giggle bubbled from her chest."But you know what I think? I think you'll definitely manifest. You're only eight Sora, there's still plenty of ti-"

His grip on her arms tightened, and she could feel the tension snaking up his body.

"Ren?"

He slung her over his shoulder without warning, and she saw his hand creep into his weapon pouch. "Hold on Sora." His voice was cold and calm and collected, and it made her shudder. "Something's not right."

And then they were flying. The trees around them became a blur. He was going too fast, jostling her too much, his grip on her legs was too tight. He never ran like this, not while carrying her. She tightened her grip on his shirt. There's something wrong, _There's something wrong. There's something_ —

 He was mid-leap when they heard the scream. His footing slipped just for a fraction of second as they landed on the next branch, and Sora's heart dropped into her stomach. "Ren," She didn't mean to sound so scared, but her voice was breaking and she could feel the sweat sliding cold lines down her neck and that had sounded like— _"Who was that_?"

He didn't respond. His grip on her legs was a crushing force as he sprinted forward. Her pant leg was damp with the sweat from his palms. Just before the village came into sight, Ren plopped her down unto a branch.

"Stay here, Sora." He held out his short-sword. "If you see anyone who looks unfamiliar, run, or shout for me. And don't hesitate to use this, if you have to. Understand?"

His face was all sharp lines and merciless eyes. It was a face he rarely showed to her, one only glimpsed in wee hours of the morning when he slunk back through the darkness like a wreath, translucent skin splattered with blood that might have been his, but probably wasn't.

He was gone the second the sword was in her grip. She dug her nails into the trunk of the tree, and the feel of the rough bark against her skin seemed to ground her. It would be alright. She didn't know what was happening in the village, but Ren was going to help and he would make it alright. Just like he made everything alright.

There was a terrible, thundering noise, like stone caving in on itself.

This had happened before, and it would happen again. Every time her father disappeared for days on end, every night that Ren tucked her in bed without changing out of his shinobi attire, was a clear reminder that the Yuki Clan would never find peace. They'd been persecuted, fractured, hunted down like animals, but together they were strong.

It would be alright. Ren, the child prodigy and the eldest son of the Clan Head. Ren, who had been deemed the strongest fighter in the clan at the tender age of eleven. He would save them.

More screams echoed in the air, and she squeezed her eyes shut, just for a moment.

He was sixteen now; stronger, wiser. Sora took a breath. Everything would be alright.

Except it wasn't. She couldn't ignore the dark cloud of dust rising ominously into the sky. She couldn't ignore the sound of explosions and earth crumbling. She certainly couldn't ignore the screams.

Her gaze fixed upon a fissure snaking open ahead of her, snow slipping into the opening as the ground cracked and shook from explosions. Her mouth went dry as the clearing collapsed, and rock crashed down into the hollow underneath. The location of her clan was a secret guarded even in death, an underground village carved from ice and limestone.

So many years of paranoia, so many concealment justus and assassination missions. No one should have known. And yet, there was nothing Sora could do as the ground crumbled in on itself, shaken by explosions that could only have been planted underground, in the village itself.

Sora watched the survivors climb out of the ruins of their village, many with ice and weapons flying from their fingertips. Those who had mastered the Yuki Clan's ninjutsu were as graceful as they were deadly, but it wasn't enough. Shinobi dressed in black and blue surrounded the few-dozen uninjured survivors on all sides, brandishing swords and foreign ninjustu.

"No….no!" Sora's heart stopped as red seeped into the snow, spreading like spilled wine across the clearing. She gripped the handle Ren's short-sword with white-knuckled fingers; the rough leather was the only thing she could feel as her vision tunneled.

She didn't feel herself fall, didn't notice until the cold bite of snow was pressed against her cheek, and her limbs throbbed with a dull ache. There was a crunch of ice in front of her, and she pulled herself up in time to see a man with a scratched out forehead protector.

Red was splattered across his face, soaking his clothes and dripping from his hands. He twirled a throwing knife nonchalantly in his hand. "Looks like we missed one."

Sora swung the short-sword at the man's ankles, but her vision was still blurred and the man kicked her blade away. She saw the knife coming down, but all she could focus on was the red in the man's clothes, the red seeping into the ground in front of her, red—

There was a strangled groan, and she was half-sure it had come from her own throat. When no blow came, Sora's vision cleared to the sight of her attacker impaled on a spike of ice. The snow around her hands had turned to ice, and the fabric of her sleeves were frozen stiff. _Ice release_. How ironic that it had chosen today to finally manifest itself.

Her legs nearly buckled as she stood. There were others, dozens of others now charging towards her. Her fingers formed the familiar the seals, and she drove them into the ground, squeezing her eyes shut. Like every attempt to freeze over the pond, there was an explosion. But this time, the ground around her exploded into a minefield of icicles, spearing through legs and chests and _people_.

Her vision faded in and out, the images blurring together as she stumbled down to the village. Blood-drenched snow. Her ice-release tearing into men with her every step. Dead men wearing the Yuki Crest across their cloaks, faces twisted and throats slit. Dead men dressed in black and blue, bodies frozen or bloodied.

Then, there was Ren, wrenching his blade out of someone's skull. He turned towards her with a bewildered look.

 _"_ Sora?….Sora! _"_

Spots swam in her vision, muddling her brother's silhouette. She felt a dull pain as her knees contacted with the frozen ground.

"Sora, you have to…I can't… you have to calm down!"

Her cheek pressed against the snow, she heard the clang of Ren's kunai slicing through icicles, felt her chakra exploding from her body in waves.

Her consciousness was fading when she felt Ren's chakra, gentle and soothing, flood across her body like a wave, sealing her chakra points and releasing the tension in her muscles.

When she woke, Sora wasn't sure if she'd been out for hours, or merely minutes. Ren's face hovered over her, furrowed tightly with concern.

With his firm hand on her back, she slowly sat up, wincing. She was bone-tired, a kind of deeper fatigue that went past her muscles, which she now recognized as chakra depletion.

She surveyed her surroundings, shocked by the rings of icicles protruding from the ground around her.

Ren patted her head with a weary, melancholic expression. "Can you stand?"

He helped her up and silently, they padded over to where the ground had collapsed inward and down to the ruins of their underground village. She couldn't help but notice how Ren was favouring his left leg, how there was a bloody gash along his right flank.

It looked as if the entire place had been bombed. It probably had been. The walls of the buildings, so sturdily carved from ice and rock, were all but demolished, and Sora stiffened at the sign of an arm peeking out of a heap of rubble.

Ren let out a slow breath, furrowing his brow in a rare display of indecision. "Maybe…maybe you should stay here. You shouldn't—"

" _No_!" She didn't think she could stomach the wait. Nothing could be worse than what her imagination was already providing.

Ren's mouth was a thin line, his eyes searching her face helplessly. "I need you to help me then. Help me search for survivors."

She helped him dig the bodies out of the rubble, and he showed her how to check for life. She had a hard time feeling for a pulse, so he taught her to press her head against their chests to check for a heartbeat.

She did so obediently for each person she encountered, even if their throats were slit, and even if she had to choke back a sob in recognition. Each time, she hovered a finger under their noses, pressed an ear against their chests, and each time, she was met with the still silence of death.

Eventually, they reached the remains of the building at the centre of the village: the Clan Head's house, and what used to be Ren and Sora's home. Ren began clearing the rubble away so they could reach what remained of the entrance, and Sora followed, clutching a fistful of his jacket in her one hand.

Ren stopped so abruptly that Sora rammed into him with an anxious squeak. She could feel him stiffen, and he immediately moved to block her path. A hand came up to shield her gaze.

"Sora…"

She buried her face in his jacket. His arms were at once rigid and unyielding, a barricade that left her with no option but to sob against the solidness of his back.

Her mother's bloodied sword laid haphazardly in her line of vision. She hadn't been holding onto much hope to begin with.

But then, there was the distant, soft cry that filled the silence, startling them both.

"Hikaru…" Sora breathed. "Where's Hikaru?"

Hooking an arm around Sora's waist, Ren raced towards what used to be the living quarters.

"Kami, please," Ren murmured. "Sora, help me dig!"

They shoved away the rubble with bleeding fingers, but only managed to clear a small hole into Hikaru's nursery. Ren eyed the fracturing remains of the wall above them with apprehension.

"Do you think you can fit through?"

"I can try."

She angled her body sideways, feeling the sharp limestone bite into her hips. The room was black as pitch, the remnants of a shattered nursery light cutting into her palms. She reached desperately for Hikaru's crib, but her hands found nothing but empty blankets. Something inside her dropped, sank deep—

Another wail.

Eyes snapping to her left, her hands find the handle to the closet.

Yes.

Warm, tiny fingers grabbed desperately at her hands as she scooped the bundle up and passed it through the hole and into Ren's awaiting arms. Ren's frame seemed to collapse in on itself with relief.

Hikaru. A collection of sacred scrolls in the remnants of the study. Her mother's jewelry box from the master bedroom. A lumpy bundle, plastered with seals unearthed from the storage room. One by one, valuables were gathered from the rubble of their home and slung haphazardly across Ren's shoulder.

 _No time_ , her brother informed her, _to bury the dead_. It wouldn't be long before scouts from Kirigakure would flood the scene, drawn in by the abnormally high chakra signatures.

With each progressive leap away from the village, Ren's limp grew increasingly more pronounced. Sora's grip on his neck must have been near choking as she — and the contents of their bag— were flung this way and that, like the passengers on a sinking boat. Hikaru babbled and wailed incessantly against Ren’s chest. The poor thing was probably sick of being jerked to and fro.

"Ren," Sora finally dared to whisper. "Maybe you should…"

She felt the muscles in his back stiffen as his shoulder smashed into the tree truck after a particularly nasty landing, but he gave no response.

A worrying shade of purple was creeping up his neck from his right shoulder. She thought—hoped— it was a bruise, but the exposed gash along his right flank, its edges inflamed and purple-black, set her ill-at-ease.

"Ren. Stop! I'm telling you to stop!"

Despite gritted teeth, Ren managed a smile. "Hey now, who's the older brother here? I'm in charge, remember?"

"But your entire shoulder is…and your leg! You need to see a healer!"

There was a pregnant pause. "Let's go a just a few more miles. Once we're out of the Land of Mist, we'll rest for the night, okay?"

Sora fell silent. Ren couldn't, she realized, get treatment. She doubted any civilian doctor could treat the gash along his flank, and any medical-nin they found would undoubtedly be affiliated with a ninja village.

By the time they located a cave to rest in, just on the outskirts of the Land of Water, the sun was setting and Ren was swaying on his feet like a drunken sailor. Sora had just enough time to scramble off his back before he collapsed against the cave wall.

"Sora," Ren called to her after she had scraped together enough twigs for a modest fire and swaddled Hikaru in their only blanket. Ren had been immobile and breathing-heavy for nearly an hour, and the sheen of cold sweat glistened from his skin. "Fetch me Mom's sword, and that thing wrapped in cloth and seals."

Ren's hand trembled as he unsheathed their mother's sword and ran a finger along its edge. "Forged from iron sand, you know? Made by the most famous sword-smith in the Land of Iron. It can cut through almost any other weapon, even steel. It's—"

"One of a kind. I know." The blade gleamed wickedly in the firelight. It was the last relic of her mother's past as a samurai's daughter, a swordswoman in the Land of Iron. A life before she married our father and took on the mantle of mother and matriarch to a foreign, banished clan. “Mom likes to— _liked_ to tell me every chance she got.”

 

Silence.

 

"And this. Dad was saving this for when you manifested." Ren finally interjected, meticulously peeled the seals off the bundle unraveled the wrappings. "He was hoping it would suit you once we realized you took after Mom.

Sora blinked. It was the hilt of a sword, elaborately decorated with the Yuki Clan crest. She gripped the hilt and frowned. It was surprisingly light, and to her observations, utterly useless. "What is it supposed to do?"

"Give it here." Ren's fingers struggled to even grip the elaborate handle, but once his hand closed around it, a gleaming blade of ice manifested. "It feeds off your chakra. It'll take a while to learn to control, but you can channel your ice techniques through it."

The blade shattered into nothingness, and the hilt dropped from Ren's hand. Sora rushed to help him prop against the wall, but he waved her off with a feeble flick of the wrist. "Sora, both the swords are yours."

Panic bubbled in Sora's chest. Ren's tone sounded so…final. "What? No. You keep one of them Ren. You'll need it. I don't need two. Your arm's gonna get better so you should keep one—"

He chuckled. "You're forgetting that I'm a rubbish samurai." He gestured to their father's dagger and winked. "I think I'll stick with this."

A grimace flashed across his face as he twisted away from her, peeling back his shirt to examine the gash along his flank.

Sora hissed at the sight. His entire right side was purple, with blackish veins tracing across his shoulder and chest. Poison.

"Ah, looks nasty, doesn't it." Ren quickly closed his shirt. He shrugged nonchalantly, though the very action caused his jaw to stiffen. "I've had worse. A couple days of rest, and I should be… good as new. Don't…don't you worry. Sora. Don't you…"

Slipping from his position against the wall, Ren's head flopped to one side, resting on their backpack. "Let's …get some sleep, Sora. Come on."

For several moments, Sora was frozen, listening to the sound of Ren's laboured breathing as he slipped out of consciousness. His entire body was trembling, but she didn't know if she could risk dragging him closer to the fire.

 _Please last the night,_ she begged, half to Ren, and half to whatever God might be hovering over them.

She gripped the fallen hilt and sheathed her mother's sword. Tomorrow. Tomorrow she would find him a healer, no matter the consequences. As for tonight…

She curled up against his shivering frame, brushed a finger across his cracked, bluish lips. For now, he just needed to last the night. Pulling Hikaru into the crook of her shoulder, she pressed her ear against Ren’s heart, the sound of his erratic pulse oddly soothing as she allowed her eyelids to droop.

She fell asleep with her head laid gently against his chest, listening to the _thump-thump_ of his ailing heart, slowly faltering.

 

* * *

 _Phew! Finally got that prologue out of the way. Kakashi to come very soon, I promise. Thanks so much for reading, and if you feel so inclined,_ please leave a review! _I'd love to know what you think of my writing, even if you absolutely hated it and want to tell me that everything sucked. After all, criticism is how we grow as writer's right?_

_Until next time,_

_Fanciful Thing_

 


	2. A Solitary Bird

**Summary:** He forces himself to meet her taciturn gaze, and suddenly he's seventeen again, and she's laughing so hard that there's tears in her eyes, and he's swearing to himself that he won't ruin this. Ruin her. How he wishes he could go back.

 

* * *

Note: 

_Ryokan:_ A type of traditional Japanese inn that typically features tatami-matted floors, communal baths and other public areas where guests can interact with each other and hosts.

_Haori:_ A traditional Japanese kimono-style jacket worn by men from the Edo period onward.

* * *

 

 

That precious hour before dawn, Kakashi has long since theorized, is the optimal time to travel through Konoha. Dawn is when most shinobi set out on missions or began training, and when some of the more zealous civilians begin to stir. Just _before_ dawn, however, the streets are likely to be empty of night-owls and early-risers alike. Silent and desolate—just the way Kakashi has grown to prefer it.

 

It isn’t that he dislikes being around people, it’s that he dislikes being around people that he _knows._ Over the years, he’d grown fond of the anonymity the ANBU masks offers. On-duty, Kakashi is a different thing entirely—purposeful, calculated, a killing machine. He is not the pitiable orphaned genius, nor the feared ‘Friend-Killer Kakashi’. When his mask is on, he is a soldier; not a lost, angry teenager who doesn’t have a damn clue what he’s doing with his life.

 

Needless to say, Kakashi isn’t particularly thrilled about his recent ‘honourable discharge’ from the ANBU crops. The Hokage’s commands are law, however, and as such, he meanders towards the Hokage’s office to receive his first assignment as a regular jonin.

 

“Kakashi.” The Third’s greeting is affectionate, but tinged with fatigue. It’s quarter to five in the morning, and Kakashi wonders if it’s another late night or early morning for the aging leader. “It’s almost strange to see you without that mask.”

 

Kakashi dips his head politely in response.

 

“This one’s S ranked, I’m afraid.” The Third sighed. “I honestly meant to give you some breathing room, but there just wasn’t anyone else.”

 

Kakashi glimpsed through the file handed to him. From what he could tell, a classic recon-capture mission that would usually be assigned to an ANBU squad. “I’ll gladly accept, Hokage-sama. It’ll be a good transition, if nothing else.”

 

“You’ll be working with Sarutobi Asuma and Yuhi Kurenai.” The Hokage rests his chin on his folded hands. “I’m sure you’ve at least heard of the Yuki Clan from the Land of Water.”

 

Kakashi nods curtly. While Asuma would be more knowledgable on Kirigakure affairs, the widespread persecution of kekkei genkai users, and most notably the Yuki Clan massacre, were a well-known dark blot on the Land of Water’s reputation.

 

“While descendants of the Yuki Clan are well dispersed throughout the nation, there are only two known possessors of the Ice Release,” The Third flips through the mission folder and gestures to a collection of blurry photographs. “The children of Takayama Yuki, the previous clan head.”

 

Kakashi scans the collage of shadowy figures and out-of-focus shots of long black hair. A male and female, from what he can make out. Not much to go by, but photos are generally of surprisingly little use anyway. “Both are targets?”

 

“Both would be preferable, but either one will suffice. Right now, it is impertinent that we obtain the Ice Release as quickly as possible.” The wrinkles around his eyes deepen. “The reason I am sending a jonin team rather than ANBU, is that we cannot afford to antagonize them. We have limited information regarding their affiliations. In short, the first part of your mission is locating and capturing the targets. The second is convincing them to cooperate with us.”

 

_Ah._ Therein lies the reason Kurenai was selected, despite her inexperience with search-and-capture missions. “Is there a timeline we should be aware of?”

 

“A terrorist organization known as Hibana has been actively eliminating individuals with even distant ties to the Yuki Clan bloodline. An ANBU squad is currently investigating their movements, but we have reason to believe their paranoia of the Ice Release is linked to their recent suspicious movements.” The Third’s gaze darted towards one of the many mission reports freshly stacked atop his desk. “You’ll be debriefed on that when the time comes. Get some sleep while you can Kakashi. This’ll be a long one.”

 

Kakashi paused at the door, eyeing the man who had given him an infinity of second chances. How many years has it been, since the death of the Yellow flash dragged the aging Sarutobi Hiruzen out of a much deserved retirement? “You too, Hokage-sama.”

 

Kakashi’s impertinence earned him a gruff chuckle as the doors closed behind him.

 

~*~

 

When she dances, she is free.

 

The beat of the drum, floor-length kimono sleeves, the precise weight of her mother’s sword; these are the things she has come to know.

 

Somewhere, a crowd bursts into applause, but Sora pays them no mind. With a sword in hand, she is weightless. A fierce warrior, a delicate dancer—it is all the same as her body melds into hips and limbs and katana swings. An exact quarter turn, an aerial flip, a sword thrust towards an invisible attacker—

 

“A solo sword dance from the Land of Iron, everyone!”

 

And just like that it’s over, and Sora retreats backstage, a weight returning to her frame. Her trailing kimono is suddenly cumbersome rather than flowing, her face makeup sticky and exaggerated.

 

“That was amazing, Minamoto-san,” Atsuko rushes to hand her a towel, eyes shining. “I hope I can be even half as good someday.”

 

Sora considers the younger girl, then offers a polite smile. “Thank you.”

 

“Your style is so dynamic! Where did you say you studied again?”

 

She has nothing to fear from Atsuko (if nothing else, the girl is kind to a fault), but Sora’s pulse quickens instinctively at the line of questioning. “The Yamakoji district. A relative of mine runs a dance school.” It is not a lie.

 

“Ah, that’s by the mountains, right? My hometown is relatively close to there. About a half-a-day trek east.”

 

Sora nods curtly, leaving a stuffy silence lingering in the air.

 

“Say,” Atsuko shuffles her feet. Her gaze is entirely too earnest. “The rest of the girls are going out to eat at the dango shop tonight. You’re welcome to come if…if you’d like.”

 

Sora’s eyes dart towards the exit. Working in a _ryokan_ filled with dancers who actually _are_ from the Land of Iron, even the simplest conversation risks exposing the truth— that she’d studied dance in Yamakoji for mere months rather than her entire life, and that her superior sword-handling skills and talent for ‘acrobatics’ are the result of taijutsu training. And so, Sora keeps her distance.

 

“Thank you for the offer, but maybe not tonight, Atsuko-san.”

 

‘Oh. Okay.” Atsuko’s face falls like a shot sparrow. Hurriedly, she turns to leave.

 

“Wai—” The words are out of her mouth before Sora can catch herself. “Tomorrow morning. I…can help you with your aerial flip, if you want.”

 

The younger girl’s grin is immediate and overwhelming. “Tomorrow it is then!”

 

Sora’s gaze lingers on the entryway long after Atsuko bounces away. _It’s harmless,_ she thinks, prays. _Helping her is harmless. It risks nothing._ Although she knows what Ren would say.

 

Perhaps, (Sora counts the days—five weeks since Ren disappeared on her again) she’s just tired of being alone.

 

_~*~_

 

To Kakashi’s mild disappointment, they do not comment on his tardiness. His half-assed excuse for their two hour delay—lost on the road of life, a reoccurring favourite—is met with a dismissive shrug from Asuma and a polite smile from Kurenai.

 

Kakashi wonders, as they set off on a brisk pace north, if they see him as somehow _fragile_.

 

He knows that the pleas of his former classmates were a factor in his removal from ANBU (for the sake of his mental and physical well-being, whatever that means). To them, he is damaged, the head case of a generation of head cases.

 

There’s a reason he no longer answers the door when they come to check up on him.

 

“Kirigakure has agreed to assist us with our investigation,” Asuma explains as they set up camp for the night. “They’re sending a historian to meet us at the border of the Land of Water with any records or intel they have on the Yuki Clan.”

 

Kakashi frowns. “Our relations with them have been hostile until quite recently, haven’t they?”

 

“They’d never admit it, but it’s rumoured that Hibana’s been a pain in their ass for a while now. It would be to their benefit to cooperate with us.” Asuma lights a cigarette and exhales in a puff of smoke. “Good point regardless. We’ll be careful.”

 

A crackle erupts from the kindling fire, courtesy of Kurenai. “We’ve got more pressing issues. Most notably, this mission might drag on for _months_ and all we brought military ration pills.”

 

Asuma shot her a weary look. “It’s not like I have a taste for them either, but it’s not like we could have brought a ninja chef on an S rank mission.”

 

“I know I—“

 

“Ah! It’s been a long day,” Kakashi interjects cheerfully, folding his hands behind his head. “You two should get some rest. I’ll take first watch.”

 

He disappears into the forest without waiting for their response, all too aware of their worried gazes lingering behind him.

 

~*~

 

“Quiet.” Ren’s voice is jagged as he inches into her room through the window. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

 

“Every time you say that.” Sora hisses, her fingers examining the damage done to his arm in near total darkness. “And every time, you lie.”

 

He can only grin sheepishly.

 

“I’m the one who has to patch you up anyway. I don’t know why you bother.” Her fingers glow a faint blue as she hovers over the wound. She eyes the sliding door nervously. The other dancers are light sleepers, and there aren’t any locks.

 

Ren muffles a groan into her blanket as Sora tries to coax the flesh to knit back together. It’s crude, unrefined; the bare basics of what a healer had taught her nearly a decade ago, but it was the best she could do.

 

When his breathing returns to normal, Ren finally meets her accusatory glare with a sheepish smile. “I took longer than I thought. Sorry little sis.”

 

“That’s not it. I mean, that _is_ it, but I don’t understand why—“ Sora’s jaw tightens as she stares at the hideous scar that cut across Ren’s right flank and shoulder. “…why you have to keep taking these missions. We’ve done well for ourselves, hopping from one establishment to another, haven’t we? I make more than enough as a dancer, and for the odd weeks that you’re around, you’re the best host any manager could ask for.”

 

“Sora…”

 

“We could be _normal_. Isn’t that what you want? Peace?” Sora winds a bandage too tight around his arm, her hands trembling. “Damn it, Ren! I don’t want to spend every day wondering where you are, wondering if you’re even alive!”

 

“We can never be normal, Sora. Don’t you know that by now?” His voice is weary, hushed.“No matter where we go, what we do, there’s always going to be people—“

 

“I know,” she murmurs. “But can’t we just pretend? Instead of going out and looking for trouble?”

 

Ren sighs.

 

“I managed to see Hikaru. Only for a couple of minutes, I didn’t want to risk being seen. ”

 

It’s a blatant attempt at distracting her, but it works all the same. Her eyes widen. “Are they treating him okay there?”

 

“As well as any orphanage can, I suppose.” He shrugs. “He seems to have some friends. I always spot him playing with a blond-haired boy and a younger girl.”

 

“He’ll be twelve in a couple of months, huh?”

 

“He hasn’t manifested. I don’t think he will.”

 

“That’s good.” Sora gnaws her lip. “That’s really good.”

 

She’d been against it at first; vehemently so, (why fracture the fragments of their family even further?) but in the end, her feelings had been selfish.

 

An infant with his chakra sealed, left on the porch of a civilian orphanage—they’d given Hikaru a chance at life. A chance that no other Yuki had been lucky enough to receive.

 

There’s a knock on the door.

 

Ren is out the window before Sora finishes pulling a blanket over her medical supplies. Most-likely, he’d head for the spare room he persuaded the Innkeeper to leave open for him.

 

Sora opens the door, careful to position herself so that the lumpy bed is out of sight.

 

“Sora. Excellent performance tonight. ” The matron is an elegant, sharp-eyed woman, and Sora was never quite at ease around her incisive gaze. “The Lightning Daimyo’s son was very pleased.”

 

“I’m glad to hear that.” Sora dips her head. “Will I be performing tomorrow?”

 

“No. We have a large party of businessmen coming from the Land of Waves. You’ll be hosting along with a few other girls.”

 

Sora holds back a grimace. According to the bits of gossip she inadvertently picked up, the matron had been an apprentice at a highly-respected Geisha House in her youth, but a love affair and early marriage led her to switch professions. Needless to say, Sora’s amateur attempts at a formal tea-ceremony are nothing but boorish fumbling in her eyes.

 

“I realize your talents lie elsewhere,” the matron’s smile is all-knowing. “But hosting, serving tea, the ability to make conversation with a variety of people, these are all essential skills that a lady should have. It would do you well to practice.”

 

“Of course. I’ll do my best.”

 

“Oh, and Sora?” The matron tips her head back as she turns to leave. “Wear the pink kimono tomorrow. In a tea ceremony, long sleeves can often conceal inexperience.”

 

~*~

 

“That’s a shame, Akimari-sama.” Sora is careful to keep her voice high, girlish. The guestsat the Ryokan often preferred daintiness, innocence—a refreshing break from their worries and responsibilities.“But I’ll sure she’ll come around. Give her time.”

 

“You think so? I’m afraid she resents me, for ah-always being away from home.”

 

“Fourteen is a difficult age, but no matter how big the quarrel, a daughter will always love her father.” Sora smiles daintily and refills his cup. “Take my word for it.”

 

“Such a sweet girl, you are.” Sora fails to hide her grimace as her guest slides an arm around her shoulders, but he doesn’t seem to notice. This owing, perhaps, to the two empty bottles of sake Akimari had requested after he tired of tea. “I wish my Hana-chan was s-so ladylike. I’ll sure you’ll marry well. Suitors lining up to…”

 

“You flatter me.” Her bashful blush has come with practice. While her guest downs another cup of sake as if it were water, Sora shoots a desperate glance at the matron.

 

“Akimari-sama.” The matron is grace personified, gliding across the tatami floor in her raised wooden clogs without so much as a sound. “It seems that your companions areready to retire. Would you like Sora to show you to your room?”

 

“Ah…yes. Have a meeting tomorrow morning, don’t I?”

 

The matron’s smile is eternally patient. “Now, that’s a worry for tomorrow, is it not? Tonight, please enjoy a soak in our herbal baths before you rest. It cures fatigue like nothing else, I guarantee.”

 

With a hand braced at his elbow, Sora walks the guest to his room. Only when the door slides close does the tension in her shoulders release. Just her luck that she’d been assigned the only one who couldn’t hold his sake.

 

Exhausted from sitting ramrod straight in a twenty-pound kimono for an entire evening, she heads for Ren’s room with the slight hope that he may have escaped from his guests already.

 

No such luck, not that Sora is surprised. She splays herself out on his bed, wrinkling her nose at the slightly musty smell. The sheets hadn’t been used in over a month.

 

Ren is a resounding favourite among the high-born ladies. No matter what Ryokan or tea house they work in, he inevitably draws in a flock of them, all swooning over his milky-skin, fine-boned features — _you’re pretty enough to be a girl_ ,an oil tycoon’s daughter had once cooed, much to Ren’s chagrin—and gentle, mysterious demeanour.

 

_What they don’t know_ , she thinks irritably, _is that he’s also silver-tongued, secretive and prone to disappearing for weeks at a time. Some husband he’d make._

 

She falls asleep with her nose buried in his pillow, and dreams of nothing.

 

~*~

 

“Yuki Clan descendants generally possess straight black hair, dark eyes and characteristically pale skin.” Asuma recites the file the Kirigakure historian had given them, muttering, “that’s half the people here.”

 

“Shhh.” Kakashi hushes him half-heartedly, eyeing the occupants of the _ryokan_ lobby. Asuma is not wrong. Tipping his head closer to his teammate’s ear, he murmurs, “the part about the teahouse in the Land of Iron was something, at least. Sent us on a bit of a goose-chase, but it’s a lead.”

 

“The innkeeper from the Land of Earth said the girl worked as a dancer, right?” Kurenai hides the lower half of her face behind an ornate fan, her voice low. She is dressed in an elaborate kimono, complete with a swaying bejeweled hairpiece and powdery makeup, and Kakashi has never seen the kunoichi quite so uncomfortable. “If she’s in the Land of Lightning, there’s a good chance she’s here. There aren’t many establishments that house such a large amount of dancers. And if she’s here, there’s a chance her brother might be too.”

 

“Do you have a reservation, mi’lady?” A brown-haired girl with painted, rose-bud lips approaches them, her footsteps nearly soundless despite the heeled shoes she wears.

 

“I’m afraid not. My escorts and I were looking for a suitable place to rest for the night. We were told your establishment is one of the finest in the area.” Kurenai scans the lobby haughtily, then examines her carefully-painted fingernails. “I do hope that’s not a problem. I’m in much need of a hot bath.”

 

The girl’s attention narrows on Kurenai, completely convinced by the kunoichi's performance as the spoiled young noblewoman. As expected, Kakashi and Asuma, dressed in ambiguous shinobi attire, melt into the background. It’s natural, they had reasoned, for a noblewoman to have escorts to protect her during her journey (although the truth is, they simply didn’t bring enough money to afford three rooms at the _ryokan_ , a high-class kimono, a convincing enough carriage—rented, of course— _and_ two sets of expensive _haoris)._

 

“Of course. I’ll have your rooms prepared shortly. If you’d like, you can head to our theatre while you wait.” The girl gestures towards a sliding door in the far corner of the lobby. “Our _ryokan_ is known for our dancers, you see, and there’s a performance starting shortly.”

 

“Hm. That’s fine, I suppose.” Kurenai makes a lofty gesture to Asuma before padding towards the theatre, and he promptly walks up to the check-in desk, already preparing a stack of bills. “He’ll take care of the rest.”

 

Even before the door was fully open, Kakashi tensed at the unmistakable glint of a sharpened blade.

 

The room was dim and surprisingly crowded. There were dozens of girls onstage, dressed in kimonos with flowing, floor-length sleeves. They flipped and spun to the traditional music, as agile as any shinobi, the flash of their swords glistening in the darkness.

 

“Traditional sword-dancing.” Asuma whistled in approval as he joined them. “I saw it once before when my old man dragged me with him to the Land of Iron. Elegant, beautiful _and_ strong. What more can ya ask for?” 

 

Kurenai shot him an irritated look. “Careful there. That blade-work looks pretty deadly. You might not be their match.”

 

Kakashi frowns, eyes trailing the lithe women as they glided across the stage, swinging their swords and silk fans. Asuma had been right in his complaints. Almost everyone fits the description of their mark. Apparently, black hair and pale skin are common traits in the Land of Iron, as well as in high-born ladies.

 

To his right, Kurenai has wasted no time attaching herself to dark-haired, pale-skinned host. She brushes her tea glass off the edge of the table, feigning flustered embarrassment, and the host catches it instantly, spilling less than a drop.

 

There is a nervousness to the way the man rubs the back of his neck as Kurenai gushes over his deft reflexes. The side of Kakashi’s mouth tips upward in approval. The host may or may not be their mark, but the kunoichi has hit bulls-eye on something.

 

He turns his eye back to the performance, trailing each girl’s movements. “The one in blue. Fast reflexes.”

 

Asuma tips his head in agreement. “And the tallest one. That’s some fancy sword-work. Dunno if that’s from the Land of Iron or…somewhere else.”

 

That was the issue, wasn’t it? Kakashi clicks his tongue softly. This was gonna be fun.


End file.
